


Secret Comfort of Women - Donna

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-09
Updated: 2002-02-09
Packaged: 2019-05-15 01:12:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14780822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Josh is hurting...





	Secret Comfort of Women - Donna

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

Rating: PG-13 for language.  
Spoilers: Noel.  
Archive: yes, but let me know where.  
Summary: Josh is hurting...

Secret Comfort of Women - Donna

We have a secret, we women. We have, through the ages, been able  
to comfort the men in our lives. No matter how far we go  
professionally and how much respect we demand and command, we  
will always have that secret. We will always know the secret of  
getting close enough to offer comfort, yet retain our distance  
lest we upset the delicate balance of our roles. It is bred into  
our bones, engraved on our hearts, and it gives us our strength.   
We are the nurturers. And sometimes even the strongest men need  
the softest of touches...

Josh has a delicate system. He won't admit it, but he does.   
Most people know about his appalling lack of tolerance for  
alcohol, but few are aware that he's delicate in other ways.   
Josh isn't even really aware of it, although tonight's session  
with Stanley makes denial harder for him.

We went to the hospital to get his hand bandaged. It was  
Christmas Eve and the hospital was not too crowded, which I  
consider a miracle. Josh laughed and joked with the doctor who  
stitched up the wound, giving the most outrageous and  
unbelievable stories as to how his hand got that way.

My favourite was the spontaneously exploding Christmas ornaments,  
unable to take the strain of having 'What Child is This?' played  
on bagpipes. That one made me laugh, despite the seriousness of  
the situation.

Once stitched, bandaged, given a shot against infection and  
released, Josh seemed to be at a crossroads. I have never seen  
him quite so unsure of himself. So I took his arm and led him to  
a coffee shop.

It amazes me how I can always find an open coffee shop, even at  
midnight on Christmas Eve. It's a gift, I guess. I ordered hot  
chocolate for both of us, with whipped cream and chocolate  
sprinkles on it. Josh asked for marshmallows instead, but the  
waitress just looked at him. She made it pretty clear that she  
resented being at work and she resented us being there.

Josh was quiet as he sipped the hot chocolate, wrapping his hands  
around the cup, marvelling how he could only feel the heat with  
one hand.  


"That's because the other hand is numb." I pointed out to him.   
I started to talk about lidocaine and self dissolving stitches  
and the newest techniques in treating wounds like his, but I  
could tell he wasn't listening. If I waited for Josh to actually  
listen to what I say, we'd never talk about anything. And Josh  
was not ready to talk.

I had just reached the part about using a patch instead of a  
needle to administer local anaesthetic, I noticed that Josh was  
looking down at his cup blankly, his shoulder giving funny  
twitches.

"Josh?"

"Why does this shit happen to me?," he said fiercely, quietly.

Well, that is the question of the ages, isn't it? For millenia,  
man has been asking why there is pain and suffering in the world  
in general and why it has to happen to me in particular. I know  
some of the answers that have been given though the ages and none  
of them really answer anything.

Josh doesn't need a treatise on theological speculation, not with  
tears running down his face and pain written all over him. I  
didn't have an answer for him the last thirty eight times he  
asked and he doesn't really need one anyway. All Josh needs is  
for me to be there.

So I reach across the table and take his non injured hand and  
hold it. He clutches my hand like a lifeline and I wait. I wait  
for him to let out some of the pain. I wait for him to bring  
himself back under control. I ache to hold him in my arms and  
comfort him, but that isn't what he needs. It is what I need,  
but my needs are not at issue here.

Finally, he draws a shuddering breath and looks at me with that  
lopsided grin, daring me to make some kind of comment. I simply  
let go of his hand and rummage around in my purse for some  
tissues.

As we drop an enormous tip for the surly waitress to make up for  
her having to work on a holiday, we put on our coats and say  
nothing.

We pass by the door and Josh points to the sad imitation of  
mistletoe over our heads.

He takes me in his arms and kisses me. It is a kiss of warmth  
and affection, of love and gratitude, allowable only because of a  
cheap plastic ornament hanging from a flourescent light. Right  
now, it is the only kiss we can share without upsetting the  
delicate balance we have.

Josh has a delicate system and you have to be careful with it.

END

  


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